


The Apocryphal Chapters of Coming Home

by GuiltyRed



Series: The Cross of Changes Arc [2]
Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyRed/pseuds/GuiltyRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contains all the "deleted scenes" from Coming Home. Shows varying viewpoints of the other members of Schwarz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 69.1 – The Sicilian Connection

**Author's Note:**

> In chapter 73 of "Coming Home", Schuldig wonders just what the heck Brad Crawford and Farfarello have been up to behind his back. It seems the ever-resourceful Crawford had journeyed to America and set a few things in play, things that now are becoming quite useful as the team searches for a quiet place to retrain and prepare their next moves.
> 
> Many readers have echoed Schuldig's curiosity. These "chapters"…are their fault, and most specifically Lodrelhai's. My thanks to all.
> 
> The Apocrypha traditionally refers to books of the Bible that, for one reason or another, have been excluded from the canon. In searching for the best way to answer those readers' questions, my own set of Apocrypha seemed in order: a set of "chapters" or short vignettes that fill in some of the gaps without upsetting the balance of the greater story.
> 
> Unlike the regular chapters, these will not have author's notes or commentary (if you want to know more, just ask). Nor are they likely to be presented in any coherent order, though they will be numbered so as to fit into the canon in the appropriate spots (i.e., 69.1 picks up Brad's story from "Coming Home" chapter 69, etc.). They come as the muses give them to me, and I give them to you in the same manner. Right now they're coming in batches, but I can't guarantee anything for future "chapters".
> 
> And, because we have Schuldig's undivided attention in "Coming Home", the Apocrypha will be told from Brad Crawford's viewpoint – and Schuldig will never know.
> 
> So, if you're inclined, take a look at a little bit of just what, exactly, Brad and Far *have* been up to…

**69.1 – The Sicilian Connection**

_Never go in against a Sicilian when DEATH is on the line._

  
“Grazzii, Papá.” Brad Crawford clasped his hands before him, bowed slightly, and backed out of the dimly lit doorway.

Only after the door closed did he straighten and turn away. He adjusted the cuffs on his fine suit jacket, tugging the shirt cuffs into line just so beneath them.

Budapest. Not his favorite city, by any means, but oh so useful to the wise.

Brad rejoined Farfarello at the small café. “It’s arranged. Are you ready for this?”

“Always, on your order.” Far’s voice held no trace of accent, carrying flatly across the small distance between the two men. “Tonight?”

“Yes.”

They played the part of tourists for the next few hours, occupying their thoughts with anything but their upcoming journey. Both men had formidable mental shielding, one due to madness, the other to sheer will. Still, Brad Crawford did not take unnecessary chances. It would be prudent to lay low, and think of other things.

Dusk found them at the edge of town, joining three swarthy men in the back of a dark limousine.

“You have your part of the deal?” Brad asked in flawless Sicilian.

The shortest of the three men did not look at Brad, rather studied the backs of his own fingernails. He wiped absently at a speck on one and replied, “As promised. And you?”

Brad smiled and adjusted his glasses. “The Terrazzi business – stay clear of it. One faction in particular – I believe you know of whom I speak – is looking for a scapegoat; someone will get burned.”

“And?”

Moving slowly so as to not invite disaster, Brad reached into his jacket and produced a thick white envelope. “American. Unmarked.” He suppressed a smirk, for he knew damn well that there were some marks only Esset could notice. Let them search through the underworld: Schwarz would not be there.

The man accepted the envelope, but did not open it. He handed it to his taller associate and told the driver to proceed.

Brad and Farfarello relaxed into their seats as their hosts transported them to a small house in an unremarkable town. By this time, night covered every transaction in a fitting degree of shadow, cloaking the world in a bandit’s shroud.

The Sicilians escorted the men of Schwarz into the building. Inside, four other men greeted their fellows and Brad with robust hugs. To their polite questions, Brad informed them that he had enjoyed his stay in Budapest very much, and the ride here even more. “It is always a pleasure to do business with your esteemed family.”

One older man offered Brad several sets of documents, which the American looked over very carefully. Passports, identification papers, even a birth certificate. He couldn’t help but smile – if the disguises were as good as these, it would certainly be worth the cost. Brad nodded his approval; several of the men took this moment to light cigars, as though they’d been waiting for some sort of benediction.

Brad examined Farfarello’s disguise before even allowing the Irishman to try it on. Current issue U.S. Army, Sergeant First Class, highly decorated, purple heart. Wounded in action, steel pins in left leg, jaw, and a plate in the skull. And every bit of it authenticated and documented. Brad couldn’t help but smile – this was as close to perfect as it gets.

Far stripped and began to dress in the uniform, ignoring the stares of the Sicilians. As he buttoned the final buttons and adjusted the beret, he, too, smiled. Brad handed him his travel papers, which he read over briefly before stashing them in his pockets.

Now that the Irishman was set, Brad turned to his own disguise. The generic black polyester suit was a far cry from his current European styling, but that couldn’t be helped. Besides, the loss of his new designer suit was part of his payment: the Don’s younger son fancied it, so Brad had included it in his bargain.

As Brad removed each article of clothing, he folded it neatly and set it on the table. Fine cashmere and linen made way for a crisp white shirt, dark wrinkle proof two-piece suit and tie, airline insignia and matching pocket handkerchief. Brad’s entire demeanor changed to match his new image, going from highly-trained Esset operative to inconspicuous flight attendant in the blink of an eye. He checked the spare clothing in the small, wheeled carry-on case, and nodded. They had provided him with a shaving kit, gentlemen’s toiletries, and fresh undergarments, as well as a set of casual clothes. At the bottom of the case he found a parking receipt and a set of car keys. He glanced up at his host, Brad’s expression one of mild bemusement.

“You are always so generous,” the elderly Sicilian stated around his cigar. “We, too, are generous.”

“My thanks, as always,” Brad replied with a bow.

“Just one question, my friend.”

Brad raised an eyebrow; Far glanced at his leader as if seeking orders. Brad raised his right hand to signal for him to stand by, then addressed the Don. “No harm in one question among friends.”

“My granddaughter. She says she sees angels, says they tell her things. True things.” The old man leaned closer, his eyes dark with a father’s most desperate fear. “Will they come for her?”

Brad placed his hand over his heart and replied, “So long as I draw breath, they will not touch her. Today she is young; by the time she is a woman, she will have no fear of them.”

The Don touched a hand to his own breast and said, “Then may you draw breath for a long damn time. My family will be happy to give you whatever insurance you need to that end.”

“Grazzii, Papá.”


	2. 69.2 – Fly the Friendly Skies

**69.2 – Fly the Friendly Skies**

_Past is past, the future uncertain…_

  
Brad checked his watch and picked up his pace. His slightly too-long hair made him look younger than he was, which was a good thing as his borrowed identity claimed he was 22 and not nearly 30.

He arrived at the proper gate and allowed security to herd him through. As a flight attendant traveling to a new job, he didn’t have long to wait. They hustled him through the process and wished him luck.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a powerfully built man in a military uniform queue up for the security pass. Brad positioned himself where he could observe but not get caught up in anything if there were trouble; he had no doubt that Farfarello could get himself out of any situation without his assistance.

The soldier limped with dignified slowness to the gate and set his carry-on down for inspection. He offered his travel documents to the security officer on duty, and Brad watched him pantomime the locations of the metal pins and plates in his skeleton. The security officer bypassed the metal detector and gave Far a cursory pat-down check, then waved him through. Farfarello picked up his bag and resumed his broken gait toward the passengers’ lounge.

Though it had worked on the first leg of their journey, Brad retained a strong skepticism as to whether this was, indeed, the best way to smuggle Farfarello onto an airplane. They had two stopovers before reaching the United States, and then they would have to deal with Dallas and the most critical of observers. Still, if it got them out of Europe, and kept Far distracted until Easter was done, it would be worth the effort. Besides, the more Schwarz knew, the better chance they had against Esset, and against _him_.

Brad suppressed a shudder and headed for the plane. One problem at a time, thank you very much – right now he had to deal with a cramped cabin, though his disguise got him a seat by the back galley where there was a little more room. He passed by Far without a hint of recognition, though he was certain that Schuldig would have picked up a fair amount of gloating from both of them.

Once aboard the plane, Brad steeled himself against the coming reaction from deep in his psyche, a reaction born in childhood and reinforced without mercy several times since then. He took a deep breath and studied the worn fabric on the seat back in front of him. He searched for patterns, for pictures, for words and for faces. Distantly he noticed Far taking a seat five rows up on the aisle.

The flight attendant on duty ran through the requisite safety speech in English and in French. Out of curiosity Brad looked in the seat pocket for the card that went along with the speech; there wasn’t one in the seat in front of him, but the one next to him yielded a stained card with a map of the airplane and a diagram of how to open the emergency doors. It was printed in English, French, German, Japanese, two other languages that were probably Korean and a Chinese dialect, Italian, and Portuguese.

Brad felt his throat close up a little as he stared at words that held no meaning for him. He pushed the emotion away with a little thank-you for distracting him from his phobia for a moment, then returned to studying the fabric for patterns as the engines took on a whining tone and the plane began taxiing for take-off.

Whether fatigue or his gift were responsible, Brad couldn’t really decide. The colored threads in the old fabric showed him pictures and words in a pointillistic portrait: specks of red coalesced from an abstract constellation to show him Schuldig’s profile, with the words “wait”, “longing”, and “disaster” fading in and out around him. Brad frowned and allowed his mind to linger on this oddness. The word “wait” remained the longest, reforming twice as he watched.

Then the blue threads came to life, showing Nagi’s eyes closing and the boy turning to walk away. The scene changed to comets plunging to earth – no, not comets: divine wind. The only word that formed was “hope”.

Brad closed his eyes, blinking hard to force back the tears. His visions had been playing havoc with him ever since the tower. Whether Farfarello’s quantum physics theory were correct, it was certainly preferable to Brad’s own first thought on the subject. Precognitives usually go mad, and when they went it was often spectacular. Most of the written history of seers was written by or on account of the madmen; it is their words that have been remembered, and often turned out to be chillingly accurate.

Not for the first time, Brad wished he hadn’t been cursed with the Sight. It showed him teasingly disturbing images of possible futures, without ever committing to something he could prepare for and, therefore, deal with.

Especially where his team was concerned.

The darkest moments of his life had always slipped under his gift’s radar, sneaking in to blindside him and test his strength in the worst of ways. Since the fall of the Elders, Brad’s Sight had whispered increasingly dark prophecies about Schuldig and Nagi, with the occasional mention of Farfarello.

Something was coming, and Brad could not stop it. Whether he could deflect it, or stall it, was another question. He knew better than to try to change the future; that way led to misfortune as neatly as wishing on the monkey’s paw. But sometimes, if one sidestepped just a fraction, one _could_ bypass fate and select another path. That way lay fraught with thorns and brambles, and if Brad weren’t careful he would lead his team into more danger than they were currently in.

Careful, and extremely lucky. So far, he had been lucky, luckier than any man had a right to be. True, Brad Crawford believed that man makes his own luck, and he’d been busy for many long years building his, stone by stone, a cairn turned into a monument, a watchtower for the future.

He’d engineered the removal of those who stood in his way, though he refused to allow himself more than a portion of the credit. By bringing Nagi to Rosenkreuz, he set in motion events that led to the executions of his two greatest enemies. Further, the boy had proved pivotal in their standoff against the Elders and against the sea itself. The future hinted that Nagi’s gift was not as it seemed, and that all hints would soon be made knowledge, if Brad had the wit to understand what he saw with his own eyes.

The plane shook and dipped, bringing Brad out of his reverie with a sweat-palmed jolt. The pilot announced they were encountering some turbulence; the “Fasten Safety Belt” sign blinked into life next to a perpetual “No Smoking” notice above each row.

Brad forced himself to stay in the moment for the remainder of the flight. Better that than fall into another pseudo-vision or daydream, or whatever the hell that had been. Besides, if he couldn’t keep it together for – he consulted his watch – another thirty minutes, he seriously needed help.

When the plane touched down in France, Brad exited with the flight crew and hurried toward his connection to London. There, the crew and flight attendants welcomed him as if he were a long-lost friend. He took a little time to chat with them, establish his story and endear himself to the crew.

Brad used his vantage point from the boarding gate to watch as Farfarello made his slow and memorable way to the plane. Yes, people would remember the veteran with the gimpy leg, and hardly even think about the eyepatch. So far it worked quite neatly, but Brad still doubted its long-term usefulness.

Already an idea was taking shape in his thoughts. Brad stopped himself from dwelling on it too much; after all, he only needed the barest outline in order to make it work. Though he knew his shields would keep out any telepaths, the quantum effect still threw him. Until he knew for certain how to keep other future-readers from knowing his plans, the less he himself knew about the plans the better.

Damn mice – if only he had a cat.

Far strode meaningfully down the boarding ramp.

Brad smiled.


	3. 86.5 – Reflections on the Kobayashi Maru

**86.5 – Reflections on the _Kobayashi Maru_**

_Things are so reckless in my mind right now._

Brad dozed fitfully, the visions refusing to let him go. There was something he’d missed…

Memory, possibility, and the memories of possibilities past spun through his thoughts in a wild and frenzied dance. It was as if someone was trying to tell him something, give him some warning, and he just couldn’t manage to hear it.

_[Schuldig, Schuldig RUN! If he won’t go, leave him but get out of here! Oh, hell, I’m running out of bullets…]_

They’d tricked him, so thoroughly that now he doubted his own gift. If he’d been a religious man, he’d have prayed for guidance, but that was not Brad Crawford’s way.

_A soft whisper in his mind: “Look back…look back…”_

Time spun out and around, pulling him in its current. He did not fight it, merely watched with the eyes of his mind as past and future fought for his attention. Dream, vision, and fantasy merged into a shadow play in his mind.

_“The future has betrayed you, look back, look back…”_

He’d missed something…

A brief vision flickered to life: a familiar, pale-haired man in the uniform of Esset military. In his hand, a spent shell casing.

Memory swirled it under. That same man touching, always touching him. Gloved fingers caressing his face, brittle gaze ignoring his pleas, muscles tense with coiled violence forcing him –

A moment of stillness, as his mind formed an oasis among mad dreams: a boy just older than himself, tall and sweet and gentle.

_Julian._

Shared innocence hung suspended in time like a heartbeat.

_[For a moment I could even smell the worn leather of his gloves, so honest and warm, so very different from Konnor’s crisp white cotton…]_

Gentle Julian.

Predatory Konnor.

So very different.

_So very much the same._

Brad Crawford awoke with a start. He did not doubt the truth of his insight, for the logic of it clicked into place with the sharp report of a gun firing.

_Konrad Schoenberg…is an object reader._

  
**A/N:**

I recognize that many readers are unfamiliar with the movie “Star Trek II – the Wrath of Khan” and why it’s relevant here. With your kind indulgence, may I present a bit of the script:

KIRK - What's on your mind, Lieutenant?

SAAVIK - The Kobayashi Maru, sir.

DAVID - The what?

BONES - The no-win scenario – and with what philosophy a commander faces defeat.

KIRK - Are you asking me if we are playing out that scenario now, Lieutenant?

SAAVIK - On the test, sir, will you tell me what you did? I'd really like to know.

Kirk looks at Bones, who smiles –

BONES - Lieutenant, you are looking at the only Starfleet cadet who ever beat the no-win scenario -

KIRK - And almost got tossed out of the Academy...

He looks at his watch again, using his glasses

SAAVIK - How?

KIRK - I reprogrammed the simulation so it was possible to rescue the ship.

SAAVIK - WHAT?

KIRK - I changed the conditions of the test. I received a commendation for original thinking. (pause) I don't like to lose.

SAAVIK - Then – you never faced that situation – faced death...

BONES - Until now.


	4. 85.1 - Hell is What We Make It

**85.1 - Hell is What We Make It**

  


**   
**

  


_Wished upon the Monkey’s Paw…_

  
Brad gripped the steering wheel with fierce defiance, determined not to allow Schuldig to see how badly his hands were shaking. The events of the past minutes – _it hasn’t even been an hour, it feels like a lifetime_ – cycled through his mind over and over, not affording him any respite.

From beside him came a steady stream of half-formed accusation. ::What if Nagi dies? What if he doesn’t wake up? Brad led us to them. Nagi… Brad… Far tried to warn us. Right to them.::

Teeth clenched in fury, Brad hauled the car off the road and down into a mud-slick ditch. For a moment he hoped they’d just crash and be done with it, but he knew better. He parked the car under a bridge as the rain rolled over them like vengeance.

“Get out.” He unfastened his seat belt and reached for the door. In his head, anger and fury and betrayal spun in a quickening spiral, fed not only by his telepathic teammate but also by his own nauseated memory. Brad moved as far away from the car as he could without striding out into the storm. Though he folded his arms protectively across himself, he couldn’t keep the pain at bay. It gnawed at him from within, just where he’d left it so damnably long ago. Rather than give in to it, he turned on Schuldig. “What the hell were you doing back there?”

Predictably, Schuldig fired back. “What do you mean, what was _I_ doing? What the fuck were _you_ doing, you son of a bitch? You nearly got us all killed!”

Brad whirled and glared at him, a decade’s worth of venom in his gaze. “You froze.”

“I did not!” The redhead stormed closer to him, gesturing stiffly. “Nagi locked down, and I got fucked over trying to move him!”

_Time. It was all about time. Past and future wove an inescapable shroud around the world._

“Fuck you! I did what I could, the kid rooted himself to the goddamn spot and then pulled me into his goddamn head!”

_You didn’t see their faces._

“You should never have taken us there in the first place, unless that was your whole goddamn point!”

_You didn’t feel the shocked recognition._

“What the _fuck_ was that, you led us _right to them_!”

_You have no idea how deep the betrayal ran._

Brad lashed out in the only way he could without killing this man whom he had come to call friend. He swung at other faces, other names, painting them over the familiar redhead and casting all his fury onto them. Brad fought like a man possessed, and for a moment, he was.

_I saved you, I saved you both! For this!_

_You fools! You stupid, stupid fools!_

For a moment the two scrambled apart and crouched panting, covered in muck, glaring hatred at one another.

Then Brad took another swing. ::If anything happened to Nagi, _it’s your fault_!:: His thoughts screamed accusation, though Brad could not supply a single target for it. His fury vented at himself, at Schuldig, at others who should not have ever been there.

Schuldig, however, had a single clear focus. ::You bastard! What happened – your “deal” fall through?::

_Deal? Deal? Is that what they were hoping for? Is that why they were there?_

_Could they possibly have thought I would ever trust them again?_

As Brad and Schuldig rushed each other with full intent to harm, a gray shadow not made of rain or time drifted between them. Farfarello stood calmly, a blanket in his hands. “You should get out of the rain.”

Brad backed away, breathing hard.

_It_was_ my fault, Schuldig. I set this in motion, years ago, when I wished upon the Monkey’s Paw…_

Far spoke quietly as though addressing the storm. “I can’t drive with my leg like this. I need one of you to get us out of here.”

Brad took a stumbling step toward the car.

Farfarello draped the blanket about Crawford’s shoulders as though he were a disgraced prize fighter.

_A fitting shroud. I wish I could grant you both a civil funeral, but you chose this path as much as I did._


	5. 102.4 – Meeting Dumbledore

**102.4 – Meeting Dumbledore**   
  
_“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas,  
and between you and me, that’s saying something.”_

  
  
Bickering. Speculations. Distrust. The background music of his life, it seemed.  
  
Brad Crawford buttoned his jeans and scrubbed a towel across his wet hair, enjoying the last few moments of relative invisibility before joining the fray. Somewhat braced, he left the small sanctuary of the hotel bathroom and coolly addressed his team without meeting anyone’s gaze in particular. “Gentlemen, keep in mind that our choices were all made the day of the ceremony. Everything after that has been following the course already set. I refuse to return to Esset, and I refuse to hand any of you over, either. Beyond that, I can’t speculate.”  
  
“Who’s going with you then, Crawford? All of us, or no?”  
  
Brad smiled; he could usually trust Farfarello to be the most straightforward of the lot, and today he was right on point. “Just you.” Turning toward the others, he asked, “Nagi, do you feel sturdy enough to cover us?”  
  
A nondescript “I suppose” would have to do.  
  
Not looking forward to this next argument, Brad nevertheless faced the inevitability of it square on. “Schuldig, can you link with Farfarello?”  
  
Schuldig looked at Farfarello. Farfarello looked back at Schuldig. The two were trying hard not to crack up laughing. Smirking in that wicked, insubordinate way that was at once endearing and infuriating, Schuldig asked, “Is that an order?”  
  
Counting slowly to ten, Brad turned and tossed the towel onto the bathroom vanity before answering, his mind cautiously still. “You know I can’t risk you linking to me for that long, Schuldig. I need you to be aware of what’s going on and ready to act on it, not falling into my head and getting stuck there.” _Can’t let him know what I have to do, or why. _“Can you do it?”  
  
The telepath handwaved Brad’s concern. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Get me some more coffee first, okay? If it gets too freaky I’ll tap you and let you know.”  
  
“Good.” Relieved at the speedy resolution, Brad finished dressing: t-shirt, shoulder holster, gun, jacket. “Be ready to move out; only what you can carry, gentlemen. Wear what you want to keep and pack plenty of ammo. This could get intense. I’m not expecting trouble, but I will not be surprised again.”  
  
Then, the wait. Taking up the chair by the window, Brad pretended to watch the street while his Sight turned inward. Today was a pivot point, a “road A or road B” kind of thing. He knew who had found them, and with luck he would soon confirm how; for the why, though, he had only the other’s word. Could he trust that? Was it enough?  
  
Never mind; it was all they had. Compared to Esset and the punishment for runaways who had embarrassed them so greatly, a deal with the Devil himself would be welcome.  
  
_Ten minutes to six._ The few hours prior had spun away in a blur of restless musings, restaurant take-out, and cigarette smoke. Brad flexed his shoulders; it was almost time.  
  
_Three minutes._ A sleek silver minibus pulled up and parked across the street. The windows were tinted nearly black; the logo on the side read “Battlefield Tour Company.”  
  
“Stay sharp, you two,” Brad stated, rising from his seat. “Farfarello.”  
  
Far nodded and swung into step behind him.  
  
Brad paused at the door, turned toward Schuldig. _He will lose contact; too much interference. It isn’t a trap, he mustn’t charge in…and he mustn’t Read me._ “If you lose contact, look for a visual signal, but don’t presume the worst. You’ll know.”  
  
“Right, right. We can always count on Far to find a way.” Though his words were mild, the look he exchanged with Farfarello spoke of mayhem.  
  
The Irishman nodded. “True enough. Pity I don’t have a flare gun, though.”  
  
Brad didn’t wait for them to finish. He strode into the hallway and headed for the stairs.   
  
_This has been a long time coming; too many hints, too many whispers. Nagi is right to be afraid, if his fear is to see the team erased – but what sense does it make to remain Schwarz, when the very concept is a relic of Esset? If this works, I can make us all free agents, though all he will see is a new master. Still – alive, with loss of pride, and free? I’ll take that. It’s the best win I can give them.  
_  
The minibus was a custom affair, sporting a powerful engine and reinforced frame; the windows were likely bulletproof. And, yes – a fine golden thread set into the glass; no eavesdropping. _If it’s calibrated to stop a telepath, that will be interesting; I’ve wondered how much they know, here’s where we start to find out. Still, by making Far his contact, I may have cheated this: their link is more visceral, like an empath’s. We’ll have to see._  
  
The door to the passenger compartment slid open; a young Turkish man in a crisp uniform beckoned them inside. He moved like a sharpshooter. Only after securing the door did he speak in softly accented English: “Mr. Crawford, we’ve been expecting you.”  
  
_They only sent one man to meet us? Interesting; they’re trying to buy our trust, not offer reassurance. We still have the upper hand. This is a gamble not lightly undertaken, by either side.  
_  
Brad adjusted his glasses and relaxed into his game face. “I know.”  
  
The driver set a laptop computer on the bar. On the screen, the image of a backlit window with horizontal blinds; whether this was a live feed or prerecorded, Brad couldn’t immediately tell.  
  
_“Konbanwa, Crawford-san.”  
_  
Brad felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift. The same filtered voice from the phone only intensified the sense of _moment_. Through sheer will, Brad kept his expression neutral. “Good evening, Persia.”  
  
The silhouetted figure offered a tiny polite bow. _“I think we both know the score, sir. Your team are hunted men. My people are at war. I expect you did not come with an answer today; that is not an issue.”_  
  
In spite of himself, Brad’s eyebrow quirked up. “Intriguing. I would have expected more urgency, considering how you spared no expense in tracking us down.”  
  
The voice filter made Persia’s laugh sound like birds. _“Hardly an expense. I threw darts. First at a map, then at a calendar. Then I took a list of local public phones, and selected one at random. And you came there.”_  
  
Brad blinked. This…was unexpected. _So the cats had learned from the mice…_ “I must admit, I am impressed. How many tries did it take?”  
  
_“That is my secret.”  
_  
With a nod, Brad conceded the point. “Well played, sir. Well played.”  
  
_“There will be a bus at this location.”_ Here the driver handed Brad a newspaper clipping about an upcoming soccer game. _“You can exchange your vehicle for a fresh and fueled car there, whether or not you accept our further hospitality. It’s the least we can do. But should you choose to extend your trust, the bus is equipped with medical personnel and stocked with emergency supplies and durable foods. Everything your team is likely to need for the next several months, including an assortment of currency.”_  
  
Again Brad felt that frisson of timelines shifting and settling around him. “Medical? You’re not trying to get specimens to backward-engineer psi-talents, are you?”

_“Why would I do that?”_ Persia replied. _“That sort of meddling brings only trouble. I suspect that all other needs are simple enough to meet without drawing attention; medical care, less so. It is a courtesy that is within my power to offer you, nothing more.”_

Brad allowed himself a moment, eyes closed and shields locked tight. _One vector collapsing – that event is indeed becoming “fixed”… _He shook himself free from the lingering visions and set them aside. “The one thing we have yet to discuss,” he stated, “is how we pay for all this.”  
  
_“Simple. Your team, in whole or in part, are welcome in my house, Crawford-san. If you choose not to accept my offer, then please, continue causing as much trouble for our ill-tempered neighbors as you possibly can. Can you agree to these terms?”  
_  
Brad allowed himself a rare, sincere smile. _He’s fairly good at taming feral things._ “Those terms are certainly acceptable. We will consider your hospitality. If we do not come, look for us at your peril.”  
  
_“Understood. Take this computer with you. It may be useful. I built it myself, while chasing your former employer out of our mainframe. It’s secure, with satellite and WiFi capacity. And yes, I can track it; no one else can. You’ll be invisible to the world, and have a ready-made distress signal should you need it.”_ Persia paused, then added, _“Of course, if you don’t trust it, he can always dismantle the signaling device or use the whole of it for parts.”  
_  
“Understood.”  
  
_“Goodbye and good luck, Crawford-san.” _The screen went black.  
  
As the driver secured the laptop in its case, Farfarello moved to open the door. The driver didn’t stop him, only grinned and shoved a half-dozen pamphlets into his hands. Brad accepted the computer case and followed his erstwhile bodyguard back to the hotel.  
  
Safely back in the lobby, Farfarello murmured, “Neat, how you stuck Pretty with my company. He’ll be wanting his sanity back from you, I suspect. Are you glad you kept your thoughts to yourself, Crawford?”  
  
_Glimpses of pale skin, sweat, pain, and fear, of faded eyes and hair gone white; flashes of gunfire and the screech of tires and a defiant curse... I fear our time together is drawing to an end – but how soon?_ “Come on, let’s give Nagi his new toy.”


End file.
